With flow'r-inwoven tresses torn The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. In consecrated earth, And on the holy hearth, XXI. 190 The Lars, and Lemures moan with midnight plaint; In urns, and altars round, A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar Pow'r foregoes his wonted seat. XXII. Peor and Baälim Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-batter'd God of Palestine; And mooned Ashtaroth, Heav'n's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine; The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn, 200 In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. XXIII. And sullen Moloch fled, Hath left in shadows dread His burning idol all of blackest hue; In vain with cymbals ring They call the grisly king, In dismal dance about the furnace blue: 210 The brutish Gods of Nile as fast, Isis and Orus, and the dog Anubis haste. Nor is Osiris seen XXIV. In Memphian grove or green, Trampling the unshow'r'd grass with lowings loud: Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest, Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud; In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipp'd ark. XXV. He feels from Juda's land The dreaded Infant's hand, The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the Gods beside, Longer dare abide, Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our babe, to show his Godhead true, 219 Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew. So when the sun in bed, XXVI. Curtain'd with cloudy red, Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale Troop to th' infernal jail, Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave; And the yellow-skirted Fayes Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-lov'd 230 Time is our tedious song should here have ending; Heav'n's youngest teemed star Hath fix'd her polish'd car, 240 Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending; And all about the courtly stable Bright-harness'd Angels sit in order serviceable. THE PASSION. I. REWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth, Wherewith the stage of air and earth did ring, And joyous news of heav'nly Infant's birth, My Muse with Angels did divide to sing; But headlong joy is ever on the wing, In wintry solstice like the shorten'd light Soon swallow'd up in dark and long out-living night. II. For now to sorrow must I tune my song, And set my harp to notes of saddest woe, Which on our dearest Lord did seize ere long, ΙΟ Dangers, and snares, and wrongs, and worse than so, Which he for us did freely undergo: Most perfect Hero, tried in heaviest plight Of labours huge and hard, too hard for human wight! |